Spinner's End Three Little Words
by rickfan37
Summary: When not at Hogwarts, Severus Snape spends his time at Spinner's End, in his childhood home. One day he meets a Muggle woman and has to decide whether he can allow himself to fall in love...
1. Chapter 1

_**Spinner's End; Three Little Words**_

_**Chapter One**_

The first time he saw her he had been peering through a small gap in the faded velveteen curtains that were permanently drawn across the small, dusty window that looked onto the cobbled street. She had been nothing but a blur of auburn hair and bottle green overcoat, striding past the window with sharp, steady footfalls. He had stepped back, letting the chink in the curtain fall closed, and returned to his work. He had not thought of her again.

The next time he saw her he was down by the river taking the morning air, such as it was. It wasn't so much that he missed the damp Scottish dawns, where moisture hung in the air and mist threaded round the ankles of anyone hardy enough to enjoy an early-morning circuit of the grounds. No, it was simply his habit before settling to a day steeped in learning, or teaching, or brewing, and he found that if he deviated from his favoured routine he invariably came down with a headache.

He stood at the water's edge, scanning the river to see what had been used to despoil it since the day before. An old bicycle, perhaps, or a shopping trolley; but no, today's Muggle offering to the god of vandalism was a stained mattress, half in, half out of the silty, slothful water. His mouth tightened in a moue of distaste and he turned away, intent on following the grassless trail back up the gentle slope that led to the road.

He had noted her unhurried approach, and when she was a few yards away had stepped aside onto the dew-soaked grass to let her pass. He had stared past her into the distance and did not acknowledge her murmured thanks, but from the corner of his eye he saw her look at him and smile as she spoke. He continued on his way and after a decent interval turned to watch her as she hurried along the path, over the small footbridge and out of sight.

He reached the footpath at the far end of the street, where the boarded-up corner shop gazed with unseeing eyes at the mill tower that pointed a reproachful finger at the neglectful sky. It was still early and he was alone, the only other sign of life the forlorn barking of a dog in the far distance.

He thought of her that afternoon as he sat in the tenebrous gloom of his dingy sitting room. Her coat had been of good quality and her demeanour was neither cowed nor brazen, polar opposite traits that seemed, mutually exclusively of course, to identify almost all the women that lived in this gods-forsaken hellhole.

She appeared completely out of place and he wondered what she was doing there. The same could be said of him, he supposed, and his eyes narrowed as he pondered various possibilities. Perhaps she had been sent to spy on him…but by which side, and to what end? He did not want to dismiss his suspicions as paranoid cabin fever too quickly; he could not afford the luxury of complacency.

It was almost certain that she was a Muggle, and after all she did not need to justify her presence in Spinner's End any more than did the slackjawed girls in pink hooded tops or the straggle haired women in faded leggings that stood gossiping on the corner on their way home from the local post office. Nevertheless, he would watch her closely from now on.

He became accustomed to her tread, sharp heels rapping on the aged cobbles as she traversed the street, and he would creep to the window and twitch the curtain aside, his long nose poking through the gap, waiting and watching. Her routine varied little and he deduced that she kept regular hours at whatever meagre employment this tired Northern town offered. He did not feel the need to follow her, although he could have done quite easily, but after a week of surreptitious observations he was confident enough of her habits to raise the stakes a little.

He had avoided the riverbank since their encounter. He did not want his impeccable manners to encourage her into conversation before he had judged the time to be right. From his limited knowledge he assumed that she was forthright, and since he was circumspect it was obvious, to him, that she would wish to take the initiative in any exchange. He needed to ensure that it would be him, not her, that decided the agenda for any discourse. He needed to assure himself that she was no threat, and that his cover was not compromised.

Thus it was that a fine sunny morning in August found him muttering a quiet "Scourgify!" before sitting on a dilapidated wooden form on a small tarmac area near to the footpath, his hands on his knees and a light breeze ruffling his hair and sending strands of it across his face. Passers-by would assume he was simply taking advantage of the clement weather and the unusually tidy riverbank, which had been cleaned up the day before by a local 'task force', and with any luck the woman would be amongst their number.

She did not disappoint. He heard her long before she stepped from the cobblestones on to the grass and came into view. She passed within feet of his bench and he raised his chin to her in greeting, assessing her impassively.

"Morning!" she smiled, and was gone before he could reply.

He did not go to sit on the form the following day. It might have looked suspicious. The day after that, she did not come. It then rained for three days straight and he cursed the vagaries of the English summertime.

In the mean time he brooded. He had expected to be called to the Dark Lord's side more frequently during the summer holidays, when it was common knowledge that the Hogwarts staff were encouraged to leave the school and pursue their own activities undisturbed. He had spent the last year consolidating his position in Voldemort's circle of Death Eaters, and considered that given time he would be able to re-establish himself as one of his most trusted lieutenants. The fact that he had been left mostly to his own devices was worrying. The woman was worrying, too.

Had not the Fates intervened, he might never have taken things further. Oh, he might have stepped up his surveillance by shadowing her and discovering her place of work. After making discreet enquiries, he might then have decided to follow her home. However, the most insignificant of events can have tremendous consequences, and thus it was that one stormy day, he stood at the window peering through the chink in the curtains at the rivulets that streamed down the pane, warping the cobbled vista beyond into a nightmarish undulation of stone and moss. The relentless drumming of the rain drowned out the sound of her footsteps and by the time he realised she was there, the dark green of her coat had sped past his window.

He watched as she crossed the road and began to descend the bank which, by now, would doubtless be treacherous underfoot. He turned away and dropped the curtain, but then heard a shrill cry, followed by an exclamation of pain. He stopped dead in his tracks and fisted his hands at his sides. It would only take a few moments to shrug on his greatcoat and leave the house. It was not as if he had never crossed the street and made for the river before, and she would not suspect him of watching for her. She would assume that he was about his usual business and had merely happened across her at the right time. Seconds later the door slammed shut behind him and he bowed his head against the persistent rain.

She had slipped a little way down the bank and now sat with her head bent, cradling her ankle in her hands. The back of her coat was caked in wet mud and it was apparent from the way her shoulders trembled that she was crying.

He stopped several yards away and called, "Are you alright?"

She tried to turn towards him but the action made her move her leg and she winced.

"Damn!" she muttered, and then called, "No, I think I've twisted my ankle. I slipped on the mud."

"Evidently," he said dryly, and picked his way to her side. "Can you stand?" he asked, looking down at her.

"If I could stand, I wouldn't choose to remain here getting soaked through, would I?" she snapped. "_Damn!_"

He raised his eyebrow and crossed his arms across his chest.

"Look, I'm sorry," she said. "It really hurts, I don't think I'll be able to put any weight on it."

"Allow me," he said, reaching down for her hand while sliding his arm around her back. With one swift, easy movement she was upright, and she caught at his arms to take some of her weight.

"Ouch! Oh, what am I going to do now? I'll never get to work like this!"

"Ordinarily I would suggest that you rest on that bench over there so that I could examine your ankle and then seek assistance," he said, "But I fear that one or both of us would catch a severe chill, even if it is August."

He paused and looked into her eyes, probing her mind gently. She tensed a little and then winced, so he withdrew. He was almost certain that her reaction was due to pain, but it would not do to frighten her. Some Muggles were more aware of legilimency than others… if, indeed, she was Muggle. Here was a golden opportunity to find out.

"I live just over there," he said, nodding back to the dingy little end-of-terrace that was his sometime home. "I'm not in the habit of inviting vulnerable women into my home, but I assure you that I intend nothing more than to administer first aid and then call for a doctor."

She looked at him levelly. "And I assure you that I'm not in the habit of accepting such offers from strange men, either. But I can look after myself," she warned, "and besides…I think I can trust you."

He scoffed to himself, but simply nodded and secured his arm around her waist, turning her so that they could climb the slope back to the road.

She insisted on removing her muddy boots at his door, not an easy task since she was obviously in a good deal of pain. She rested her hands on his shoulders for balance as he stooped to pull them off for her, irritated that he was reduced to this when a simple Scourgify always sufficed when he was alone. Leaving them on the mat, he grudgingly toed off his own and then peeled off his coat, gesturing for her to do the same. He laid them on the back of the worn red sofa, and took her arm to lead her round it so that he could help her sit down.

"Oh, thanks!" she said, flopping down unceremoniously and grabbing the one rather flat cushion to stuff behind her back. "I really appreciate this!"

He grunted non-committally. "I could hardly have left you out there for the rain to wash away."

She let out a short laugh, and fell silent. He did not need to see her face to know that she was looking around and taking in every detail of her surroundings. Lucky, then, that the darker volumes from his personal library were shelved upstairs behind a warded door, and that the lesser tomes crammed into the shelves that lined the room were, if not actually Muggle, charmed to appear so.

He moved into the sickly pool of light given off by the one standard lamp, and took the other end of the sofa.

"Here, lift your leg and let me see your ankle."

She obliged, and he frowned at the swelling he found there. A sprain, definitely, but he could see no sign of a fracture. He held her foot in his hand and moved it gently from side to side.

"Owww, that hurts," she complained.

"Not as much as it would if it were more badly damaged, or you would have passed out before now," he said dryly.

She glared at him. "I don't think a great deal of your bedside manner!"

"Really? A moment ago you were thanking me profusely," he observed, getting to his feet and crossing to a narrow door disguised as more shelves.

"What are you doing?"

"Getting you something for the pain."

"Oh, right. Thanks. And…a coffee would be nice?" she said hopefully. He turned and met her gaze, catching the hint of a smile in her eyes. He inclined his head slightly and picked up their coats.

"Coffee. Of course."

A few moments later he had used a drying charm on his coat and had cleaned and dried hers, draping it over the back of a chair in front of the stove in case she wondered how it had been dried out. By the time he had finished and the old tin kettle had come to a magically accelerated boil, he was itching to get back to the next room, to make sure she hadn't been prying.

She had not. She was still sitting exactly where he had left her. Silly of him to expect her to do anything else, since it was looking ever more likely that she was simply a Muggle.

"Here," he said shortly, passing her a china mug of steaming black coffee before sitting down in the wing chair opposite her.

She wrinkled her nose. "Got any milk?" she asked hopefully.

"I take mine black, and I rarely entertain," he replied, crossing his legs and steepling his fingers.

"Oh. Well, thanks anyway," she shrugged, taking a sip and grimacing at the bitter taste. He smirked, and before she could comment said,

"It isn't too strong for you, is it?"

She looked at him appraisingly for a moment before she answered, and her reply left him momentarily at a loss.

"It's dark and bitter, and I admit that it'll be a challenge, but I'm sure I can rise to the occasion."

It was only after she had finished her second mug that they both remembered he had not yet telephoned for the doctor.

Her name was Cass, he discovered.

"A seer's name?" he noted, looking her up and down as she hobbled along beside him and feeling gratified that she bore no resemblance to the so-called Seer that lived in Hogwart's worst-ventilated tower.

"Yes, I was christened Cassandra. Mum was into classical history."

"As was mine," he said carelessly, strangely pleased that he would be able to give her his true name with the minimum of fuss. "She called me 'Severus', after the Roman."

"Cool!" she grinned, and he allowed himself a wry smile.

The rain had stopped some time during their conversation and the sun was busily drying the pavements and shrinking the numerous puddles that had formed in the gutters and between the flags. He had retrieved an old walking stick from his cellar and she was managing quite well, although he had still offered his arm for support. She had not noticed the healing draught he had added to her second cup of coffee, thinking its bitter taste to be the blend he preferred, and had pronounced herself fit enough to attempt the short walk home. She promised she would call the doctor in the morning and he agreed, knowing that by then there would be no need.

He left her at her door and returned home, but only after she had extricated from him the promise that he would return the next evening for a simple dinner.

He rarely broke a promise. By no means could he be said to be a moral or an honourable man, for he had done far too many unforgivable things for those epithets to rest easy on his shoulders; however, he was an exacting man of regular habits, and if an arrangement was made, of whatever kind, he could be relied upon to keep to it.

He had been looking forward to dining with Cass. Accustomed to a solitary lifestyle, keen, indeed, to keep other people at a safe distance and shun anyone desiring a more personal entanglement, he nevertheless found himself anticipating an evening of interesting conversation with something akin to pleasure. Unfortunate, then, that he should be called to the Dark Lord's side late the following afternoon.

By the time he returned to Spinner's End the start of term was merely days away and he was in no mood to seek her out and explain. He owed her nothing, after all; the invitation to dinner had been made by way of reciprocation for his rescue, and as far as he was concerned the mere fact that she had made the offer was sufficient for him to consider the slate wiped clean. It was better that way, for both of their sakes.


	2. Chapter 2

_**Chapter Two**_

The Headmaster's Yule festivities were anathema to Severus Snape and he did his level best to avoid them; however, sometimes the old fool would not be dissuaded by any excuse other than the one foolproof pretext; absence.

Ordinarily Snape did not relish the prospect of spending Yule alone at Spinner's End. Despite his somewhat ascetic reputation he enjoyed his creature comforts, and the cramped, damp accommodation that was his childhood home did not compare well with his spacious, warm suite of rooms at Hogwarts, and nor was it served by a house elf. His mother's house elf had died many years before, and he had never felt the need to replace it. At times he regretted his decision, but he spent so little time at Spinner's End that it hardly seemed worth it.

_Until now_, he thought, wrinkling his nose in distaste as he pulled back the curtains and saw thick black mould creeping along the sill. The whole ground floor stank of damp, musty books and he swore as he cast a wide, sweeping Dessicating spell; not too much, or the books that lined the room could well crumble to dust or even burst into flame the first time he tried to light the fire. A house elf would at least have kept the place aired and slow its gradual, but obvious, dereliction.

Later, once the place had been dried out and made habitable once more, he prepared a simple meal of cold cuts and crusty bread and settled down to read a handful of periodicals. There were no Order meetings scheduled for the foreseeable future, and no Summons was expected. He needed nothing but his own company, and he frowned with distaste as he imagined the gathered hordes at Grimmauld Place for Molly Weasley's brood and hangers-on. She had invited him for Christmas dinner, although it was not her place to offer; that dubious honour belonged to Sirius Black, and Snape would no more break bread with him than Black would offer it.

A bottle of claret later, the room had become oppressively warm and the walls were closing in. It was time for a walk, although perhaps not down to the river. Frost was already tracing delicate fingers of ice across the window and the previous day's snowfall would no doubt be icing over, making the terrain treacherous. He donned his cloak and transfigured it into a voluminous greatcoat, and strode out into the night.

It was a little after eight, according to his pocketwatch, but the streets were more or less deserted. Cars parked either side of the narrow streets were covered with a snow an inch thick, and their owners' laughter could be heard from behind closed doors. The streets were lit in orange, from the halogen streetlamps and small square windows lined with dancing coloured lights and lurid festive ornaments. If he looked over the crest of the hill he could see a nimbus of orange stretching from one side of the town to the other, like a coating of sickly, stifling honey. How he hated not being able to see the sky. All existence might as well have shrunk to this one dying town, this one miserable street. At least at Hogwarts he was shown proof every day that there was more. Here, where everything was insular and small, it was easy to allow himself to be suffocated by apathy.

He took a right turn at the bottom of the street, crossed the road, and set off in the direction of Cass's house.

She stood in the doorway and folded her arms, illuminated from behind by the warm yellow glow of the parlour lights.

"Oh, it's you!" she said. "So, what are you, the Good Fairy that only turns up for birthdays and Christmas?"

He blinked. "What? Hardly… That time…it was your birthday?"

She shrugged dismissively. "I don't make a song and dance about it any more. So, what brings you here? I'm afraid you're a bit late for dinner."

"I've already eaten."

" – Several months late, in fact," she said acidly. "Well, come in, you're letting all the warm air out!"

He raised an eyebrow at her rebuke, stamped his feet on the mat just inside the door, and followed her inside, closing the door behind him. It opened directly into the living room, just like his own house, but there all similarities appeared to end. This house was full of light and warmth, furnished simply but very well.

"I don't want to intrude," he said, out of polite convention rather than finer feeling.

"Well, as you can see, I haven't any visitors. I wasn't expecting any, either, least of all you."

She had raised her voice a little as she disappeared through a generous archway that led to the open-plan kitchen beyond. He saw her take down two glasses from a cupboard.

"Want some wine?"

"That would be acceptable, thank you. Red," he added, hurriedly. He hated to think what sickly concoctions passed for wine in this unenlightened town.

"Of course!" she said, surprised. "Red's all I drink. Sit down, and turn the telly off, I wasn't watching it anyway."

He lowered himself gingerly into a capacious armchair, adjusting three fat cushions at his back, and noticed a remote control on the low table in front of him. It was covered in numbers and symbols and while he felt sure that he would be able to use it correctly, given time to study it, he did not want to arouse suspicion. Instead, he silenced the television with a discreet wave of his hand before she re-entered the room with two large glass goblets filled with a rich, deep claret.

"So, what happened to you?" she said, sitting on the sofa opposite his chair and curling her legs under her unselfconsciously. She was wearing blue jeans and a plain black tee shirt, and her feet were bare. He felt a slight stirring deep inside. It was good to see her, and she did look rather fetching.

"I beg your pardon?" he said.

"Dinner. You never turned up," she said patiently.

"Ah. I was detained," he said, choosing his words carefully to no avail.

"Arrested?"

"Certainly not!" he said indignantly. "No, I had a prior commitment. I couldn't get out of it."

That much was true. One never ignored a Summons.

"And you couldn't get to a phone?" Her tone was pleasant enough, but she was obviously annoyed if she was still interrogating him so tenaciously. He sighed and his mouth twitched in irritation. He was beginning to wish he hadn't come. She was only a Muggle, after all, and he still had three back issues of his favourite periodical to catch up on.

"I'm sorry," he said eventually. "It was ill-mannered of me. I ought to have let you know."

There. Three apologies in one.

"Well. Never mind, it didn't matter. I gave it to the cat."

And that was that. She stretched out her leg in front of her then, and waggled her ankle at him.

"See? Completely better! I don't know what you did, but the next morning it was as good as new! Are you sure you're not a doctor or something?"

He smiled, partly with relief that she seemed to have been mollified. "Something, maybe," he said.

"Well, whatever talent you've got, I bet they wish you could bottle it, it's really something!"

_If you only knew_, he thought, and snorted. He did not know which rhetorical _they_ she was referring to, but it didn't matter because once again she had changed the subject.

"Would you like some of these?" she said, reaching over to a side table and passing him a large tin of foil-wrapped Muggle sweets.

An hour or so later, Cass had opened a second bottle of wine and the tin contained more empty wrappers than sweets.

"And what did you say this one was?" he enquired, holding one up and waving it at her.

"A noisette whirl," she said with exaggerated patience.

"Ah yes. Curious name."

"Yes, you said. I can't believe you've never heard of these, they're everywhere, especially at Christmas!"

"I've never noticed. I don't care for sweets."

"You could have fooled me," she grumbled, rummaging in the tin and finally setting it down with a sigh. "I only opened it this afternoon!"

"Oh. Sorry," he said.

"Doesn't matter. They don't do my figure any good anyway."

He looked into his glass and shook it a little, watching the wine swirl around the base. "You look fine to me," he said quietly.

She didn't answer, and when he looked up she was staring at him curiously - even tenderly - with a half smile on her face.

Oh dear. What had possessed him to give voice to his thoughts like that? And what was more, why had he allowed himself to drink so much wine that his faculties had been affected so? Granted, she was a very attractive, vibrant woman, and he had sought her company, however accidentally, but he had no business trying to seduce a Muggle. His position within the Dark Lord's ranks would become untenable if it were discovered that he had such a mistress.

Nevertheless, he was drawn to her. He set down his glass and looked at her enquiringly, raising an eyebrow. He could always obliviate her in the morning.

Later he would tell himself that she had made the first move by coming to straddle his lap, but the truth of the matter was that he had met her halfway, sitting on the edge of his chair while she sank from the sofa on to her knees before him.

Kissing her was interesting. Her lips were soft and warm and opened readily for him when he ran his tongue along their seam, and he explored the warm cavern of her mouth with increasing hunger. Her arms had wound round his neck and her fingers threaded through his hair, tugging at the roots and sending shivers down his spine to the small of his back. Scientifically, he knew that all she had done was stimulate the nerve endings on his scalp to release a rush of endorphins, but the way her breasts pushed against his chest and the unmistakable scent of jasmine from her hair assailed his senses. The urge to scoop her up in his arms and make her his was overwhelming.

After several minutes more, he succumbed and lifted her on to his lap, sitting back in the chair and letting her drape herself across him. The weight of her thigh on his erection was difficult to tolerate, as every time he stroked her back she squirmed against him, stimulating him to such heights of arousal that he doubted his ability to control his reaction. He continued to stroke her back, nevertheless, for he found himself craving a more intimate knowledge of her curves. He ran his hand experimentally under her tee shirt, stopping when he reached the strap of her bra, and she let out a soft moan and nipped his lower lip. Assuming she had given her consent for him to explore further, he trailed his knuckles around to her stomach and then up the lacy underside of her breasts.

"Severus?" she breathed.

"Hmm?"

"Would you like to stay tonight?"

He smirked.

Her bedroom was softly lit and very feminine, although not fussy. Plain cream linen and rich velvet cushions and throws covered the generous bed, while matching sheers hung at the window with brocaded fabric draped over the curtain rails. She was trying her best to distract him, nuzzling at his jaw and pushing his shirt off his shoulders, but self-preservation was, as always, his overriding concern and he took in every detail of the room, including a secondary escape route should he be unable to disapparate if attacked unawares.

Once he was assured of his safety, he was able to let down his guard a little and succumb to her attentions. He watched, amused, as she struggled to pull his shirt off, and then took pity on her and unfastened the buttons himself, using an unobtrusive charm to slip the cuffs over his wrists. She was too preoccupied with his trousers to notice, and for the first time since his inexplicable admission to her downstairs, he acted without thinking first, pulling her to him and pressing a bruising kiss to her lips as passion flooded his senses.

Ah, she tasted good. She was intoxicating, and he kissed her greedily, unfastening her bra and disentangling himself from her embrace so that he could rip it from her and cast it aside while never breaking their kiss. Now he could crush her to him and delight in the sensation of her pebbled nipples brushing against his stomach.

When he woke it was daylight, and the orange glow of the streetlight outside her window had been replaced by watery sunshine that reflected the snow-covered street and cast his surroundings into sharp relief. He was still for a few minutes, unwilling to move and risk waking the woman at his side until he had taken a better look at their surroundings. Not that it was likely she would wake soon, since her breathing was regular and, at times, alarmingly stentorian.

He noticed his clothing in a pile on the floor and he grimaced. That would never do. He was about to summon his wand and arrange his clothes neatly on the small stool before the dressing table, but thought better of it. Cass had turned over, away from him, and appeared to be on the verge of waking. He did not want her to catch him using magic.

He shifted onto his side and watched her as she slept on. Her hair was tangled and he almost reached out to run his fingers through it, to comb it through, but stopped himself. That would have been far too intimate a gesture, and might give her no end of erroneous ideas about his feelings for her and their future. In spite of the night they had shared, he had no feelings for her, and they had no future. His urge to spoon against her and enfold her pliant body in his arms was merely an instinctive urge to conserve body heat, and it would be far more efficient, and less problematic, to simply get dressed.

Cass stretched languorously and groaned, "Ooh, I need the loo!" She threw back the duvet and saw Snape buttoning his jacket. "Hey, where are you going?"

"Good morning to you too, Cassandra," he said dryly. "It's rather cold in here, don't you think?"

"Yes, freezing, the heating isn't on yet."

He stopped, mesmerised as her nipples reacted to the chill in the air, presenting hard pink peaks for his attention. He had lavished a good deal of attention on them the previous night, and his lips curled into a sardonic smile as he recalled how he had made her scream from the pleasure.

"And to think that I imagined you were hungry for more," he observed.

"What makes you think I'm not, you arrogant sod?" she laughed, and disappeared into the bathroom.

When she came out his wand was at the ready, up his sleeve. As soon as she entered the room he flicked his wrist and it fell into his sure hand. One quickly cast Obliviate was all it would take. A few moments of disorientation on her part would give him time enough to hasten down the stairs and remove all evidence of her having entertained the night before. She would see the two empty bottles of claret, but with only one glass, and would simply assume that she had had too much to drink, which would explain any gaps in her memory.

He couldn't do it, and the split second's delay as he struggled to quell the surge of feeling in his chest at her dazzling smile cost him the advantage and made everything far more complicated.

"What's that?" she asked, the smile freezing on her face. "Where'd that stick come from? It looks like a magic wand!"

He hesitated. He could still cast the spell and be done with it, but then who would Obliviate him and make him forget the way her body had moulded to his in the night? Who would assuage the searing memory of her sighs, which had sent tendrils of warmth deep inside him to make goosebumps prickle at the small of his back?

"A magic wand? Well, yes, I imagine to the untrained eye…" he murmured, examining it. "It's used in… You see, Cass, I practice an ancient form of self-defence."

Cass was peering at the slim ebony wand and reached out to run her finger along the shaft.

"What sort of self defence? Do you shout 'abracadabra' and scare people with a bunch of flowers?"

"Hah! Not exactly! No, but if I was to jab it into your windpipe in just the right way, I could cut off your breath in an instant," he said, his voice lowering.

Cass swallowed. "It looks so harmless," she said. "Except, I bet it would be pretty nasty if you stuck it up someone's nose, or in their ear. It could go all the way to their brain!"

"Exactly," he said, concealing it in his sleeve. Cass was far too gullible, he decided, although her assertions were correct, albeit not in the way she imagined.

"You don't carry anything that might be considered an offensive weapon, do you?" she asked, a little too brightly. "Like, a knife?"

"Of course not," he said. "All I need is my - stick."

Once he was sure that Cass was reassured as to his sanity and her personal safety, he took his leave, explaining that he had to return to the school to prepare for the new term. Surprisingly, she appeared most unwilling to let him go, and threw her arms around his waist as he was reaching for the door.

"Severus, I – I'm so glad you came. It was great to see you, and – well, it was great. Don't leave it so long next time, eh?"

His arms went round her automatically and before he knew it he had buried his face in her hair.

"May I call on you, the next time I'm in town?"

"You'd better!"


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

The rest of the year saw Snape making several visits to Spinner's End. He never told Cass when to expect him and, to her credit, she never asked. She seemed willing to let him take the lead, and he liked that. Moreover, it was taken as read that their assignations would take place at her house, and not his.

By the time the school summer holidays were almost upon them he had accepted her malleability and so had even stopped wondering how to explain that he would not be spending them with her, since of course she could not know that there were still Order meetings to attend, quite apart from frequent Summons. Instead, he had begun to plan his research, and his life, around going to see Cass. She had become an addiction, and a pleasure that he would not deny himself. He felt warm inside whenever he was with her, and she teased him about the way he smiled when he thought she wasn't looking.

On one particular afternoon, he had good reason to smile. An enemy of his, Black, had fallen through the Veil while battling Death Eaters in the Department of Mysteries the night before. The Headmaster had faced Voldemort and both sides were now claiming victory. Snape, for his part, was lauded by both while actually doing next to nothing, and his position as a trusted member of the Dark Lord's inner circle was more secure than ever before.

His good humour did not go unnoticed. After reporting to Dumbledore and discharging his duty as head of house, he had made his excuses and left the castle, Apparating to a secluded spot down by the canal before striding purposefully to his front door. All appeared well, and after checking that all the wards were secure he carried on around the corner and across the street, making for Cass's house. Truth be told, he was beginning to think of her house as home. It was certainly far more welcoming than the squalid hovel he had inherited. By the time he had rapped smartly on the gleaming brass knocker his self-satisfaction and glee were threatening to burst from his chest by way of exuberant laughter.

"Severus! Oh, love!" Cass beamed as she flung her arms around his neck and pulled him over the threshold. "I wasn't expecting you till Saturday!"

"Hello, Cass," he said, following her inside and closing the door behind them both. "I thought I'd surprise you!"

"Well, you did! Lucky I wasn't in bed with the milkman, eh?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"Kidding! Never mind, come here!" She wrapped her arms around his waist and looked up into his eyes. "What's up? You look like you just lost a tenner and found fifty!"

Cass's turn of phrase could be mystifying at times, he thought wryly.

"If by that you mean that I appear to be in good spirits, then yes, you're right," he agreed. "Something I have been working towards for a long time is coming to fruition."

"Good for you! I bet no-one deserves it more!" she said happily.

Sometimes he wished he could tell her what it was, exactly, that he did. Her support and enthusiasm for what she assumed were his endeavours was touching, but somewhat annoying at times. Still, as long as he steered their conversations away from his work their discourse was engaging enough, as were the times when words ceased to matter, such as now, when she was running her hands underneath his shirt and lightly raking his skin. He guided her over to the sofa, nipping lightly at her neck as they went, and they sank down together all questing fingers and tangled limbs.

Later, after they had made their way upstairs and shed their clothes and the sunset through the gauzy curtain had suffused the room with orange and pink and made her passion-dampened skin glow as if it had been dusted with mother-of-pearl, he sighed and stretched languorously. He had allowed her to curl her body over him and rest her head on his chest, and now he stroked her back idly with one hand, the other behind his head. He was as relaxed as he had ever allowed himself to be, thanks to Potter, of all people, and thanks to this remarkable woman who allowed him to share her bed. He felt very kindly disposed to her indeed, and closed his eyes, imagining weeks, months, even years ahead of them.

Such a shame that she had to interrupt his reverie and ruin his day.

"Severus?"

She sounded very sleepy, he thought indulgently. Of course, it was only to be expected after several orgasms in short succession. That last one had been particularly effective, if the buzzing in his ears was anything to go by. He always enjoyed turning her moans of pleasure into screams, and he wondered if she knew just how hard her reactions made him. "Mmm?" he rumbled, by way of a reply.

"You're wonderful…"

He smirked.

"I love you so much."

His eyes snapped open and it took all of his prodigious skill at dissembling not to stiffen and alert her to the alarm that had all but frozen the blood in his veins. He forced his body to stay limp and completely relaxed, no mean feat, and replied with a contented sigh. With any luck she would assume this was his way of reciprocating, and would not press him into a declaration of his own.

Her arm was draped across his chest and she squeezed him lightly, snuggling more deeply into the crook of his shoulder, and he embraced her absently, frowning at the ceiling, until her breathing became deeper and more regular and he knew that she had fallen asleep.

To his surprise, he woke an hour or so later. The streetlights had come on, although the sky was not yet fully dark. Cass had turned over in her sleep and released him, taking the sheets with her, and he was able to slip from the bed without disturbing her. He dressed swiftly and silently and went downstairs, where he sat in the accommodating armchair just outside of the pool of light cast by the standard lamp. There was a small box of those Muggle chocolates that he liked on the side table, and he helped himself to a caramel barrel, unwrapping the gold foil and tossing it into his mouth, chewing and swallowing it without even tasting it.

_I love you so much_, she had said. _I love you_.

He couldn't even remember the first time he had heard the words. They were a constant, silvery thread that ran through all of his earliest memories, a sweet and loving voice that blessed and soothed and made him feel that he was at the centre of his mother's world. As, indeed, he had been. _I love you, my sweet, sweet boy. _He wondered how old he had been when everything had changed. Seven or eight? It had been during his mother's fourth pregnancy, only her second successful one. Looking back, she had been preoccupied and withdrawn, terrified that she should let her husband down by a third failure and so protective of the child cradled in her fragile womb that there was nothing left for the sweet, sweet boy that still played at her feet.

The words had never come from his father. There had been words, plenty of them, but never those. His father's words had been all exhortation and instruction followed invariably by disappointment and disapproval. No matter how hard he tried to please, his best never sufficed. By the time his younger brother was old enough to follow him everywhere, he had stopped trying.

His brother had become the sweet, sweet boy, and the three little words were saved exclusively for him. Their mother succumbed to their father's influence and soon she was as impossible to please as he was.

No one had told him they loved him for years.

As he grew, he found solace in the written word, constancy in the interplay between herb, root and spell, affirmation in the efficacy of various concoctions. Wand and cauldron, book and jar; he needed, and sought, nothing else. His internal landscape encouraged solitude and reflection and he saw no reason to venture from his self-imposed island across the stormy seas of companionship. People ebbed and flowed according to cruel and random whim, and since a kindness extended would soon be snatched back and nursed jealously, it was evidently better not to try.

The words meant nothing anyway, for betrayal was always a heartbeat away.

Eventually he heard movement from upstairs, and he pushed himself up and out of the ridiculously squashy armchair. It would not do for Cass to find him brooding in the dark, so he pulled back the curtains and let the light flood into the small sitting room before striding into the kitchen and withdrawing his wand. Silently casting a few spells, he had soon made it appear that he had spent some time preparing breakfast for them both; scrambled eggs, toast and steaming mugs of coffee. By the time he had arranged everything on a large patterned tray with, curiously, a cushion strapped to its underside, she was padding into the kitchen and slipping her arms around his waist.

"Oh, Severus! What a lovely surprise! I wondered where you'd gone!"

He closed his eyes with a pained frown as she pressed herself against his back. She was so easily pleased, so accepting despite his many failings. It was obvious that she had no idea – none – of his true nature, or purpose.

"Good morning, Cassandra. Now that you're up, I suggest we dispense with this odd contraption and use the dining table, like civilised people?" he said, turning round to her and trying not to push her away.

She snorted in amusement. "You're so funny! Such a stuffed shirt, look at you all dressed! But I know what goes on underneath all this," she continued, running her hands over his chest and across his shoulders, "and I know what happens when you let down your guard!"

_When I let down my guard I am as good as dead,_ he thought. _And if you knew of my intent you would be aghast._

He made his excuses half an hour later, pleading an urgent lesson plan due to an unexpected change in the school syllabus. A complete fabrication, of course, but Cass was easily convinced.

"This school of yours works you too hard," she said as she took his plate and placed it carefully in the sink.

"No more than most," he said casually. "I think you'll find that all teachers have to do a good deal of work outside school hours."

"Well, yes, I know, but – oh, I wish you could stay! When will I get to see you again?"

"As soon as I can manage," he said truthfully.

"I could always come and visit you? I've always wanted to go to Scotland!"

"I'm afraid that's out of the question," he said firmly. "Visitors from outside are discouraged from interrupting school life." _And besides, it's unplottable. You'd never find it._

"God, you make it sound like a prison!"

"Hah!" he barked mirthlessly. "In many ways, it is!" Before she could keep on asking difficult questions he scooped her up in his arms and kissed her deeply, relishing the tangling of her fingers in his hair and wishing he could return her feelings honestly and wholeheartedly.

At length, he released her and smiled wanly at her heavy-lidded eyes and glassy expression. "And now I must go, " he said. "Thank you for a most memorable night. I'll be in touch soon."

"Do you promise me?"

_Ah, Cass_.

"Yes. I – promise you."

Turning the corner into the street that joined his own, Snape sensed something. His wand was safely hidden up his sleeve as usual, and with an imperceptible flick of his wrist it slid down until it was grasped lightly in his hand, concealed by the folds of his greatcoat. There was a faint smell of magic in the air, a telltale signature left by a recent Apparition.

There was no one in sight but that did not mean that an enemy could not be hiding behind any of the scuffed and grimy doors in this particular street. Unlike Cass's street, this area still bore the scars of years of neglect and many of the small cottages had been boarded up for years, housing nothing but rats.

Rats. _Pettigrew_.

He clenched his teeth in order to keep from uttering an expletive. What the devil did that oily little sycophant want, that he should risk their exposure by coming here? Had he perhaps been sent to spy on him? And had Wormtail witnessed him taking his leave of Cass?

Damn and blast it all, he ought to have been more circumspect. The woman would be his undoing, he was certain of it. If Voldemort discovered a weak spot he would worry away at it and use it ruthlessly. Cass had no idea of the danger she could be in, or the trouble she was likely to cause him. He rued the day he had ever met her. Why could he not have dismissed her as unimportant? Why had he ever even noticed her?

Thus castigating himself, terrified for the woman he had left, all warm ample curves and smiles as she leant on her door frame and watched him walk away, he tightened his grip on his wand and rounded the corner into Spinner's End. There he saw a disheveled and cringing Pettigrew, tapping nervously on Snape's front door and looking fearfully around and down the bank to the river.

Snape caught him unawares. "What are you doing here, Wormtail?" he hissed, pressing the point of his wand into the side of the shorter man's neck.

Pettigrew started, and then stiffened. "Snape! I've been knocking!"

"I can see that."

"Where have you been?"

"Out. Have you been following me long?"

"Following you? I've only just got here. Now can we please go inside? I don't want to be seen, and there are far too many cats around here!"

Snape pushed Pettigrew away from the door impatiently before removing the wards and stepping inside, leaving it ajar for Pettigrew to follow. Once the door had been closed again and before Pettigrew's eyes could adjust to the gloom, Snape advanced on him and grabbed the lapels of his shabby mohair jacket.

"I'll ask you again, shall I?" he snarled. "Why are you here?"

The maleficence in Wormtail's eyes was fleeting, and soon masked, but Snape saw it nonetheless. "Our Lord sent me," he simpered, pawing at Snape's coat with begrimed hands. "He wants me to aid you in your endeavours."

Snape pulled away distastefully. "And what endeavours might those be?" he asked.

"I know about the experiments, and I know what he plans to do! He trusts me, you know!"

"Really?"

"Yes, just as much as he trusts you! I've been his faithful servant for so many years now, he has promised me such rewards!"

Wormtail had begun to babble, and Snape rolled his eyes impatiently. So, the Dark Lord had decided to send a spy, to keep an eye on his supposedly most trusted lieutenant. What did that signify? Was Snape's position being undermined, and if so, by whom? Malfoy was out of the frame, but his sister in law had an evil tongue and a seething dislike of Snape, and she was fanatically devoted to Voldemort. A few well-chosen words and his carefully constructed façade could collapse through no fault of his own. Yes, Bellatrix Lestrange was probably the architect responsible for all of this.

"There's a small cot in the boxroom upstairs. The room is damp but it will have to suffice."

As long as his conduct was everything that was to be expected of a loyal servant of the Dark Lord, and as long as Pettigrew was there to witness it, then Snape supposed he would have to make the best of it. He just hoped that Cass would not break the terms of their heretofore-unwritten agreement by coming to call. If Pettigrew had not seen them together already, then Snape wanted to make absolutely sure that it stayed that way.

Trying to escape Wormtail's beady little gaze for long enough to slip away to Cass would have been futile, let alone dangerous, and so Snape composed a letter, using his small supply of Muggle notepaper, to tell her that he had been called away for the summer and would contact her on his return. He told Pettigrew that he was going to take his morning constitutional, made sure he gave him the slip for long enough to take a detour through the back alleys to the nearby post office, and popped his letter into the box. Then he firmly put all thoughts of seeing Cass again out of his mind.

Several weeks passed. Occasionally he would hear sharp heels clacking across the cobbles and his heart would race, but even as she neared his door her step never faltered. He was glad of it, for in his way he had grown quite fond of her. He would not like to see her come to any harm the way she did in the recurring nightmares of blood and chains that woke him in the night, sweating and shaking, tight-throated and wet-eyed.

One autumn evening, when the fractious wind howled litter through the ginnels and the slate-grey sky frowned darkly on the town, Snape heard a frantic knocking at the door. He put down his book and his eyes darted to the open door that led to the stairs. Pettigrew was scrabbling around in his room, and perhaps he had not heard. If Cass had come – but no, she would not, not after all these weeks and besides, she thought he was out of the country. And he had not heard her approach.

He rose to his feet and moved silently to the door, pressing his ear to the wood and catching a whisper of voices on the other side. Narcissa, and – surely not Bellatrix?

He schooled his features into a mask of impassivity and opened the door, ushering the two women in. He glanced out into the empty street and felt a lance of anxiety spear through him. Whatever these two wanted, he had no doubt that his future would be changed irrevocably and there was no place in his accursed existence for any attachment, however slight. Closing his eyes briefly, he shut the door on his half-admitted hopes.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

Summer was fading fast, and the evening skies cradled a bloated, drowsy sun as it set into its bed of pink and orange clouds. Delicate leaves that no longer had the strength to hold on to tired branches fluttered and fell, spiralling to the ground where they skittered across streets and into gutters to become mulch underfoot.

Snape walked along the bank of the canal, the footpath cracked and dried out despite the recent rain. Summer had been desolate, brittle sunshine beating down onto an unwilling landscape, although he had barely noticed. He had spent the months since Dumbledore's death in the dark, dank places favoured by his Master, courting his favour and despising the Fates.

Sometimes he hated Albus Dumbledore for manipulating him so successfully. For encouraging him to make an Unbreakable Vow to protect the Potter boy at all costs, even if it meant being seen to take the life of his mentor and friend. For allowing him to spend years courting death as a spy. For putting him in the invidious position of being forced to leave everything he knew behind. For ensuring he would never be happy. The hatred was sharp and fierce but, stubbornly, still coated with respect, sweetening the pain and setting his teeth on edge.

He scowled at a stray dog as it wagged his tail at him vaguely, and started to climb the incline to the road. The last terraced house on Spinner's End was Unplottable and Wormtail, apart from the Malfoys and Cass the only other person who knew its location, was on an errand for Voldemort, so Snape was sufficiently confident that he would not be discovered here. Most of the wizarding world was looking for him, he knew very well, but he had unfinished business here, a task that he had already left for far too many months.

He barely gave his childhood home a second glance as he strode past it and around the corner into the next street. Despite Narcissa Malfoy's indebtedness to him for saving her son's scrawny neck, the thought of dark curls and generous hips persisted in appealing to him more than the pale, passive languor that was his supposed reward. He needed to see Cass again, albeit only to say goodbye.

The house still looked the same, with its brightly painted front door and voile-covered windows, so he did not hesitate as he rapped sharply on the knocker. Even though he had not been near for many months, he could tell that she was still in residence.

The door opened a few inches, held close by a thick safety chain, and Cass's face poked through the gap. She looked surprised to see him.

"Hello, Cass," he said. "May I come in?"

She raised her eyebrows. "What are you doing here? And more to the point, where the bloody hell have you been?"

"Will you please open the door, or must we conduct our business in full view?" he said irritably. He felt exposed, with his back to the street, and for appearances' sake he did not want to betray his nerves.

"Wait a minute."

The door closed, and he heard her disengage the safety chain. He pushed it open and stepped inside, forcing her to take several steps back into the small living room.

"Hey! What makes you think I want you in my home again?" Cass said angrily.

He leant against the door to click it shut, and folded his arms. "If you hadn't wanted me to come in, you wouldn't have made it so easy."

"You arrogant bastard!" Cass glared at him, folding her own arms in unconscious imitation. "So, then. What have you got to say for yourself?"

"I've been away…"

"No kidding!"

"Things have been… difficult. I am sorry."

Cass rolled her eyes and sighed, before throwing herself into one of the armchairs. "Go on then, tell me. Although I know I'll regret this!"

"Thank you, Cass," he said dryly, taking a seat on the sofa and sitting forward so that his bony knees touched hers. "As I was trying to say, it's been a trying year, and at the end of July I was forced to leave my place of employment – "

"They sacked you? From that school?"

"In a manner of speaking. I suppose you could say that my position there had become untenable," he said carefully. "I have spent the summer in alternative employment, and have had little free time."

"Yeah, new jobs can be like that," she said grudgingly. "What's your boss like?"

"A hard taskmaster," he said. That, at least, was the whole truth. "Cass, I would have come sooner, had it been possible. I've – well, it's good to see you again."

"Hmph."

Snape cleared his throat. "And what have you been doing?" he asked.

"Oh, nothing much," she said carelessly. "Just, you know, getting on with it. Not a lot else I could do, was there?"

He frowned. He had detected a tremor in her voice, and felt a pang of regret at what he had done, and what he was about to do. The hard length of his wand up his right sleeve was cold comfort this time, and he ignored it and reached out to her, patting her thigh. "I really am truly sorry," he murmured.

"I feel like such a fool!"

"Why is that?" he said, genuinely puzzled. Granted, she was a Muggle and therefore aware of only part of what went on around her, but he had never found any part of her conduct particularly stupid. On the contrary, she had been delightful company. He knew that despite his best efforts, he would continue to miss her and rue her absence from his life.

"I let you into my bed! And into my life, and – and my heart!" she said, shaking her head incredulously. "God, Severus, I told you I was in love with you and then I never saw you again! How much more a fool could I be?"

"Ah, Cass, nowhere near as big a fool as me."

He dropped to his knees at her feet and reached to touch her cheek. She made a small exasperated sound, but didn't push his hand away, so he cupped her cheek and leaned towards her.

"I am truly sorry," he began, sliding his wand from its sheath, but then her sea green eyes, swimming with unshed tears, met his gaze defiantly and made the small of his back tingle in anticipation. The sun had not yet set, after all, and he would do better to leave under cover of darkness.

With a surreptitious flick of the wrist, he sheathed his wand once more and drew her towards him for one last time.

-----------------

Snape had by no means had his fill of Cass, but he could not afford to linger now that the detestable streetlights diffused their sickly orange glow into the pure royal blue of the late-summer sky. Regretfully, he slid from her and shifted so that he could lean on one elbow and watch as she drifted into sleep. As her breathing slowed and deepened he smiled tightly. The draught he had slipped into her coffee had been very mild, because he had wanted to couple with her one last time before she slipped away from him forever, and he preferred her to be conscious for it. He had judged that after bringing her to her peak, or several of them, she would need only a drop or two of the brew to fall into a light sleep, which was all he needed in order to carry out his plan.

He leaned over her and kissed her cheek, and she sighed but did not stir. He reached for his clothes and left the warmth of her bed, dressing quickly with his back turned. He did not want to linger on her face or her curves. He had already stayed far longer than he should. He took out his wand and stood at the foot of the bed. For the spell to work effectively, the victim needed to be at least semi-conscious, so he said quietly,

"Cass? Cassandra?"

Cass opened her eyes and lifted her head from the pillow, smiling at him contentedly for a moment until she took stock of what he was doing.

"Oh, you're dressed!" she said. "Where are you going?"

Snape forced himself to remain impassive as he pointed his wand straight at her and said,

"Obliviate."

His arm fell to his side, and Cass's head dropped back on to the pillow. Her eyes swam shut and a frown creased her brow. He knew that in moments her head would clear and she would be fully alert and no doubt wondering why she felt so strange, so he turned abruptly and strode out onto the landing, pulling the door shut behind him.

Once down the stairs he charmed his coffee cup to clean itself and put itself away, and then made for the front door, noticing on her bookshelves a large tin of the Muggle chocolates of which she was so fond. He took a handful and stuffed them into his pocket on his way out.

Snape walked briskly down to the canal and along the bank, past a rotting carpet and the rusty skeleton of a mattress. He reached an old concrete shelter, only recently vacated if the acrid smell of urine was any measure, and picked his way through the broken glass until he was inside and unseen. Taking a chocolate from his pocket he unwrapped it without looking at it and put it into his mouth. The familiar taste made him close his eyes for a second and allow himself a deep, shuddering sigh of regret. It was a noisette whirl, his favourite.

He Disapparated.

**THE END**


End file.
